


Recalled to Life

by nwhepcat



Series: Tantorverse [2]
Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-05
Updated: 2009-12-05
Packaged: 2017-10-04 04:32:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nwhepcat/pseuds/nwhepcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his unwilling resurrection and his many losses, Wesley receives an unwanted visit from someone who's been there, done that. A slayer doesn't know how to take "bugger off" for an answer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Recalled to Life

**Author's Note:**

> Wes was the only one left out of the happy ending of "How Tantor and Tarzan Became Friends," so I decided steps must be taken.
> 
> Spoilers for all of BtVS and AtS. Warnings: past character death not clarified in series canon, depression, suicidal impulses. Angsty but ultimately hopeful.
> 
>  
> 
> Disclaimer: Not my playground, but Joss said I could play. Written for fun, not money.

A sharp sound rouses Wesley, and he blinks in the darkened room. The shopping channel natters on, and of course there are no gunshots or surges of soundtrack to bring him awake, which is why he favors it. The presenters are talking about a sequined pantset in the same tone of rhapsody normally reserved for -- well, everything, on this channel.

 

 

It makes him think of Cordelia, though she no doubt would have disdained this particular garment as tacky.

 

 

Cordelia. She was the lucky one, though he hadn't realized at the time.

 

 

The sound comes again, startling him. Someone pounding at the door of his flat. "Wesley."

 

 

The voice is female, but he doesn't know it. It only matters that it's not Fred's. Fred is done with him, gone off with that Sunnydale boy. Harris.

 

_\-- Only two minutes left for this exclusive designer set --_

 

 

Wesley has no interest in who's at the door. He keeps his eyes on the flickering screen, awaiting whatever marvel is to come next.

 

 

The knock escalates to thumping. "_Wes._ I know you're in there. I'm not going away."

 

 

He reaches for the bottle, topping up his glass. For all he cares, she can stay there until the neighbors call the police. Until she dies of starvation.

 

_Just one minute left for this exquisite pantset--_

 

 

"Thirty seconds, Wes. Then I'm kicking your door in."

 

 

Muttering a curse, he rises and approaches the door. He realizes he has the glass in one hand, his handgun in the other. It takes him a few heartbeats to decide which to set down on the entryway table.

 

 

It crosses his mind to open the door and do what he's been contemplating. Maybe the lack of a witness is what has been holding him back.

 

 

He puts down his drink and opens the door.

 

 

***

 

 

It takes a moment for the identity of his visitor to sink in.

 

 

"It's been a long time, hasn't it?" she says.

 

 

"Christ," he says. His voice sounds rusty from disuse. "Harris sent you, didn't he?" Wesley remembers being a virtual prisoner in the back of Harris' car, on the way to brief the demolitions team about the perils of Wolfram &amp; Hart. Harris had suggested this very notion, absurd as it is. The idea that Wesley would have anything to discuss with Buffy Summers is ludicrous.

 

 

"How about if I come in?" she asks.

 

 

A better idea occurs to him. The perfect retaliation to Harris' effrontery in sending Buffy here to counsel him after dismantling his life. Let her report _this_ back to him.

 

 

Stepping back from the door, he raises the gun to his temple.

 

 

In less than a heartbeat he finds himself on the floor, a knee bearing down on his back, his arm twisting painfully behind him. Despite himself, his fingers loosen and she wrenches the gun away.

 

 

"Jesus, Wes!" The knee remains in his back until he hears the skittering of bullets across the wooden floor. By the time she lets him up, the gun has disappeared from view.

 

 

"I'd forgotten how quick a slayer's reflexes can be," he says.

 

 

"I'd forgotten how enthusiastically a watcher can go off the deep end," Buffy counters. "Why don't you settle back into your chair here, and we can have a chat." She whisks the bottle away and slaps at the power switch on the television. "Xander told me you'd been yanked back to the land of the living. It's a rough transition."

 

 

"Are you looking to form a support group? I'm afraid I've no interest in sharing my feelings. All I need to do is rectify the error, and there'll be no need to process my emotions."

 

 

"'Rectify the error,'" Buffy repeats. "Funny, I had the impression from Faith that you'd removed the giant pole from up your ass. Or do you use phrases like 'rectify the error' when you're too chickenshit to admit the truth to yourself, that you're taking the coward's way out?"

 

 

"You have no idea what you're talking about."

 

 

"Maybe you're right. Getting yanked out of heaven and having to claw my way out of my grave is nothing like what you went through." She perches on the sofa. "So why don't you tell me your story?"

 

 

***

 

 

"I'm certain you've already heard Harris' version."

 

 

"That's his version," Buffy says. "And while he made every effort to be fair, and he understands the issues of revivified-Americans better than a lot of people, he still doesn't know what you're going through."

 

 

Apparently tiring of squinting in the weak light leaking around the windowshades, Buffy reaches for a lamp and turns it on.

 

 

"Holy shit," she murmurs as she sees the scrawl of marker on the walls.

 

 

Wesley reads on her face that she is revising her estimate of the depths of his madness. "Those weren't made by me," he says. He's not sure why it's important that she understand this, but it is.

 

 

"They weren't," she says dubiously.

 

 

"It was Fred. Or Illyria, I'm not certain who had predominance at the time. You can see why I've preferred to spend my time in the dark."

 

 

"I dunno, Wes, normal people might have reached for the Sherwin-Williams. What _is_ it? Is there some demon language that looks like math?"

 

 

"It is math," he tells her. "Fred is quite a brilliant physicist." He remembers the crack of her tiny hand across his face the last time he saw her. _What you did was unspeakably cruel ... I can't forgive that._ He raises his hands to his face.

 

 

"Something tells me this is all mixed in together," Buffy says quietly. "Your resurrection and Fred and this demon that possessed her."

 

 

The watcher in Wesley -- what's left of him -- chafes at the inaccuracies in her comment. He drops his hands. "Illyria is not a demon, but an ancient god. And what it did to Fred -- it wasn't possession, but complete obliteration. She died in my arms, in complete agony. What rose in her place was a grotesque parody."

 

 

Buffy frowns in confusion, but doesn't question or contradict. "There was some kind of battle. Angel and the others." There is the merest trace of unsteadiness in her voice.

 

 

"I wasn't in that. My task was to assassinate a sorcerer. I failed, and never joined them at the battle." He remembers lying on the tile floor in Vail's mansion, cold penetrating his body as shock took over. He remembers Illyria and then the illusion of Fred.

 

 

"But you were brought back. Dragged out of your resting place."

 

 

"I'd barely had time to find rest. I'd no sooner died than it brought me back."

 

 

"It?"

 

 

"Illyria. My understanding is, it encased me in a temporal stasis field at the point of my dying. It found Xander Harris to help it, then plunged its hands inside of me to drag me back to life."

 

 

"Wow. The hard reboot. Do you know why? I mean, in my experience of ancient gods, not so much with the giving a crap for human life."

 

 

"Illyria had grown obsessed with me. With my grief, unfortunately. Though it disdained them, I think my emotions provided it with an outlet for its own grief."

 

 

"Nice. It's always good to have someone around to embody your emotions for you so you can kick them around for it." Buffy abruptly rises to her feet then, and approaches one of the walls to study the scrawled equations, her back to Wesley. "Spike. I heard he probably died in the battle."

 

 

"Illyria believed so, yes."

 

 

"I hadn't known. That he survived Sunnydale."

 

 

It's a relief to have the focus on someone other than himself. "He didn't, not precisely. He was brought back. Angel received a package with the amulet he gave you. When he took it out, Spike emerged. It was like seeing a death in reverse."

 

 

"How long was he back?" The false tone of casualness reminds him that grief is not something he bears alone. Nor is rejection.

 

 

"For some months. But some magicks bound him to Wolfram &amp; Hart for a time. He did speak of you often. He believed you had a fresh start in life, and he wanted you to have time to flourish."

 

 

"Without him."

 

 

"He cared for you." Wesley is surprised at the harshness in his voice. "Be content with that."

 

 

She turns back toward him.

 

 

***

 

 

Wesley rises. "You got what you came for."

 

 

"What I came for?"

 

 

"At least as much as I can give you. I don't know any details of the battle. I'm sorry I can't tell you more." He brushes past her to the door, opening it with a grand gesture.

 

 

"That's not why I'm here, Wes." She settles back on the sofa, leaving him standing like a fool with his hand on the doorknob. "I came to see if I could help."

 

 

With an air of exasperation, he pushes the door closed, but remains where he is, silent.

 

 

"You lost so much," she says. "Friends, the people you fought beside -- when they're the same, you don't have anywhere to go when something this big happens. You didn't even have a chance to be there at the end, to be at their side when they fell."

 

 

To hear this child speak from the experience of a battle-weary soldier tears at the heart he's been trying so hard to deaden. "Yes. I failed them."

 

 

"You sacrificed for them."

 

 

Were it not for the door at his back, he would fall to his knees, he's certain. "Stop this."

 

 

"I know," she says gently. "Harsh is easy to take. Coldness. Heartlessness. It's comfort that feels like it'll strip everything away, make it all truly unbearable."

 

 

"Then stop." His voice is choked, clotted with emotions he doesn't want.

 

 

"It's just us reanimated chickens here, Wes. This stays between us."

 

 

"I will not break down on cue for you." Despite this, his voice nearly breaks from the effort not to do so.

 

 

"You're a very private man," Buffy says. Though he cannot look at her, he senses the stillness surrounding her and knows she has not moved.

 

 

"You may understand the needs of revivified-Americans, but I assure you I'm not a member of your tribe. I was not raised to glorify people who spew their emotions before an audience or a camera. I will handle them on my own."

 

 

"With a gun?" she asks.

 

 

***

 

 

"Well, you've taken care of the gun, haven't you?"

 

 

Buffy emits a puff of breath. "Jesus, Wes, you really do think I'm an airhead. Because, yeah, this is L.A. How on earth would someone find a firearm? Or a knife or streetcar or a box of rat poison or whatever the method du jour happens to be. Look, I know the deal. You can lead an Englishman to the single malt, but you can't make him talk."

 

 

Wesley raises his head in surprise at this allusion to Giles, but Buffy doesn't elaborate.

 

 

"So here's a crazy idea," she says. "It's not like I've got a million people I can talk to about the whole way-past-near-death experience. My friends, sure, they know what happened and they care. But they're so guilty about pulling me out of heaven that I _can't_ talk about it. It gets to be all about them, and I have to pat them on the shoulder and say, 'It's okay, I understand, you thought you were rescuing me from hell,' and I really think I've done my duty along those lines. It's hard to say 'It sucks' and move on when you don't really feel like you're allowed to say 'It sucks.' So why don't you settle in and get comfortable? I'm not wasting my chance at a knowledgeable audience, if not a sympathetic one."

 

 

Part of him -- most of him -- longs to be rid of her. But the long-buried watcher feels a compelling urge to learn what he can. Wesley follows her suggestion and settles back into his chair. "You believe you were in heaven."

 

 

"Well, I can't prove anything. I didn't meet any of the so-called five people you meet. Complete absence of harps, which believe me is fine. I've never seen the appeal. I just -- it was calm and I felt at peace. Coming back was wrenching and painful, and I was so angry and depressed."

 

 

Angel had never spoken of her emotional state when he'd come back from seeing her once she had returned. He had entered just in time to witness Wesley and Cordelia mocking their relationship and kept it all to himself.

 

 

"I couldn't tell them. They were so certain they'd done what was best for me that I couldn't tell them the truth. I was a walking lie, trying to pretend I was happy to be back and doing a damn poor job of it. Spike was the only one I told for the longest time. Until -- well, there was a spell that kinda forced the issue, then it was out."

 

 

But clearly they weren't better. This is his proof that venting one's emotions isn't the magic cure-all.

 

 

"Why Spike?"

 

 

"That's just a big ball of complicated," she says. "Because he wasn't involved in bringing me back. Because he had proved his loyalty to me, and risked himself to protect my sister. Because I didn't have to give a shit about his feelings, and I had to tread so carefully around everyone else. He can be a good listener -- I should make that past tense, I guess. He gave you his full attention."

 

 

"Fred liked him very much too." _Fred._ The despair that had begun to recede crashes in on him once more.

 

 

***

 

 

"Tell me about Fred," Buffy says.

 

 

His fingers rub at his forehead. "What is it you want to know?"

 

 

"Whatever you think is important to tell me. What is she like?"

 

 

"That's right," Wesley says. "You never met her."

 

 

She makes no answer.

 

 

"She was such a lovely girl. She was brilliant -- I'm certain there are people who would understand these equations on the wall, but it might only be a half-dozen at best. She was incredibly brave -- when she died, and when I first knew her. She'd been through so much." He turns his face toward the windows, but the only view is the lines of light coming in at the edges of the shade. "I'm afraid I'll forget her, that the memories of Illyria in her body will overwhelm my memories of Fred herself."

 

 

"Well, it's no wonder," Buffy says matter-of-factly. "She was good and pure and brave. Nice to be remembered that way, if anyone can really remember those things." The cruelty of this makes him look toward her, but there's nothing malicious in her expression. "Those are such slippery words they might as well be meaningless. How can you hang onto them? Spike -- Spike wore black nail polish that seemed to go on chipped, because it never wasn't. His kisses tasted like cigarette smoke, but not the same way that human smokers I kissed tasted. He was a big ol' _Passions_ fanboy, though he hated to admit it. He thought Manchester United was one of the reasons the world should go on. He played poker with demons, with kittens as the stakes. He loved my sister and it really hurt him when she hated him for a while."

 

 

The affection conveyed by these details is palpable. Buffy lets them sink in for a moment, then says softly, "You see what I mean?"

 

 

Wesley nods, then laughs. "You make me wish I'd known him."

 

 

"So tell me about Fred."

 

 

"She loved tacos. She had been trapped in another dimension, forced to live like an animal for years, and the first thing she wanted when we brought her back was a sack full of tacos. She was also extremely fond of pancakes and ice cream, and as tiny as she was, she could eat like a linebacker. Fred had quite a pronounced Texas accent. She loved challenges and problem-solving. Her singing voice --" A twitch of a smile touches his lips. "Frankly, it was terrible."

 

 

"That's the Fred you won't forget," Buffy tells him.

 

 

***

 

 

Wesley settles back in his chair, eyes closed, turning over memories in his mind, examining different facets of the woman he loved.

 

 

After a long while, Buffy says, "I am confused about something, Wes. You talk about Fred in the past tense, but you also said she was the one who wrote on your walls. Her or Illyria. I can smell the marker, it's making my head hurt. So I know it's fairly fresh."

 

 

"She did die when Illyria infected her. But there was a spell in force when she died, that had altered her memories. All our memories. Illyria was present when the spell was shattered, and Fred's true memories flew to their former home. In a sense Fred in turn infected Illyria. They shared Fred's body, but it began failing. They were both dying, when I last saw them." His voice grows unsteady. "She -- they -- could no longer walk. They must surely be dead by now."

 

 

Another long silence spools out as Buffy studies her hands. After a time she raises her head. "Wes, I should tell you something. The timing isn't the greatest in the world, but this kind of secret -- it's toxic. If you found out farther down the road, I think it would be worse."

 

 

A fully-formed response springs to mind, about how he was trained as a watcher, how he's cultivated the ability to take an unflinching look at unpleasant truths. But the unpleasant truth here is that this would be posturing, that he is not so certain of his ability to weather more bad news. But he cannot willingly ask for a lie -- it was forgivable in the moment of his dying, but he can't bring himself to do so now.

 

 

"Yes," he says. "Tell me."

 

 

"Fred is alive. She's whole. Illyria may or may not be somewhere inside, but it made a willing retreat, and healed Fred in the process."

 

 

His breath catches. "That's impossible."

 

 

"Very probably. But Giles was there when it happened, and he's what I'd call an impartial observer. Willow and Xander were there too."

 

 

"None of them knows Fred. Willow had met her, but just barely. Illyria could quite easily fool them. It duped her parents for a short time, after all."

 

 

"She breathes, she pees, she eats tacos. She's alive in a way that Xander says Illyria wasn't."

 

 

"It's a lie," Wesley says flatly.

 

 

"I've seen her. She's a real girl again."

 

 

"It's a trick. Why would Illyria relinquish its foothold on this world?" Even as he speaks, he remembers its bitterness with the world it had found awaiting it.

 

 

"I don't know, Wes. It's had all its centuries -- millennia, maybe -- of rest. Why would it find it unbearable to be yanked back into the world? You'd think it would be grateful. Everything's sunshine and puppies and --"

 

 

Wes raises his hand. "That's enough. Why would Illyria restore Fred? If it wished to sink back into nothingness, why not just let Fred die too?"

 

 

"I wasn't there. All I know is what I've been told, but I heard it from Xander and Giles and Willow. Illyria came to like Fred. It liked Xander."

 

 

"Xander fucked that thing," he says harshly.

 

 

"Xander has a gift for the newly human, or the trapped-in-human-form. I don't think he believes it, but he does."

 

 

"And now Fred is with him?"

 

 

"It seems that way, yeah," she says gently. "Like I said, I didn't want you to be blindsided by this later. I've always been a tear-off-the-BandAid girl."

 

 

"But first you made damn certain to deepen the wound before you did. Why? Do you really hold such bitterness toward me after all these years?"

 

 

"Wes, closing down your feelings is just choosing another kind of death. Trust me, I've made all the mistakes so you don't have to. So you're mourning the death of a relationship instead of a person. Don't cheapen what you had by smearing vaseline on the lens. If you really loved her for who she was, she deserves for you to mourn for who she was."

 

 

***

 

 

The truth of what she's saying spears him through, and that sparks his anger. "You've become quite the sage since I knew you. Tell me how you pulled yourself out of despair, wise one."

 

 

Buffy doesn't even blink. "And you've become quite the dick. I'll tell you what I did, none of it recommended. Lots of inappropriate sex. Your ideal partner is one who never has to come up for air."

 

 

This supplies him with more mental images than he'd like.

 

 

She goes on: "Then you want to find someone you can use as a punching bag. Because nothing pulls you out of the land of self-pity like a good period of self-loathing. And then it helps to have some enemies. If you've got someone targeting you, throwing you off balance every minute, making you question your sanity, it keeps your mind off your other problems. Round it off with a good near-apocalypse, especially one caused by one of your best friends, and you'll be right as rain in no time."

 

 

"Yet you are."

 

 

"I guess I am. At least right as a fine mist -- or -- stupid simile. Which is righter, a soft, misty rain or a hard, pelty one?" Her expression softens along with her voice. "Well, look at that. You are still capable of smiling."

 

 

Wesley rubs at his forehead just above the browbone, suddenly tired. Though he's drifted in and out of sleep over the last few days, he hasn't felt like _going_ to sleep, not until now. "It's a British expression," he says.

 

 

"Well, that explains much."

 

 

"A recent variation on a very old series of similes," Wesley continues. "In the seventeenth century, one of the versions was 'right as a gun.'"

 

 

Buffy stiffens almost imperceptibly. "Rain suddenly makes a whole lot more sense."

 

 

Wesley remembers his gun, now somewhere in her possession. He has unfortunately reminded her of it too. "In Dickens' time it was 'right as a trivet.'" This homey version doesn't have the disarming effect he'd hoped for.

 

 

"You don't have one of those, do you? How much of a weapons stash do you have?"

 

 

More than would make her comfortable, he's certain. "It's not a weapon. It was an implement for cooking in the fireplace."

 

 

"Cooking. No wonder it sounds like a weapon." She relaxes just a little. "Just like a watcher. Use an expression, and he's right there with the history and the footnotes."

 

 

"I haven't been a watcher in a very long time." Wesley slaps his thighs in a manner that indicates his intention to rise, as well as her invitation to leave. "I find I'm extremely tired. If you'll excuse me."

 

 

She gets to her feet as he does. "Of course," she says. "I'll just check the pantry sitch, make a few phone calls. Don't worry about me."

 

 

"Buffy, I meant --"

 

 

"I know what you meant." Her voice is steel sheathed in velvet. "It's not happening. Go on to bed, you look wrecked."

 

 

With a profound sigh, he does as he's told.

 

 

***

 

 

Wesley is disoriented when he wakes, proof of the state he's been in that awaking in his own bed is something unusual. His hangover is milder than it's been for days. He seems to remember having particularly vivid dreams, but has only the vaguest recollection of them.

 

 

Opening his bedroom door (odd, that; he almost never closes it), he finds the apartment drenched in morning light and permeated by the smell of brewing coffee. Investigating, he finds Buffy Summers lounging on his sofa, reading a magazine.

 

 

Not a vivid dream, then.

 

 

As she looks up from her reading, he suddenly becomes aware of his state of undress and quickly scuttles back to his room to hastily pull on some clothes.

 

 

"Nothing I haven't seen before," Buffy notes as he reemerges.

 

 

"If that's meant to reassure me, nice try."

 

 

"There's coffee, which, I know. But if Giles is any indication, you'd rather suffer with a good cup of joe than drink some form of tea you disapprove of."

 

 

"I actually quite like coffee." He finds a clean cup in the cabinet, more evidence of Buffy's presence. He pours some, adds some milk which hasn't spent some days curdling in the refrigerator, then returns to the living room. "You've been here all this time?"

 

 

"With a quick trip to the store. It's a nice neighborhood. I forgot how much I missed L.A."

 

 

Disarmed by her manner, it takes him a moment to respond. "You slept here?"

 

 

"Catnapped. Did a little decluttering."

 

 

Wesley scowls. "Yes, you lot seem very fond of attending to my housekeeping. But this is my home, and I'd prefer to have it to myself again. If that meets with your approval."

 

 

"Mmm," she says. "Don't think so."

 

 

"I do not want or need a nanny."

 

 

"I pulled a gun out of your hand not 24 hours ago. You need something."

 

 

"I'm certain you've taken care of any implement I might use to harm myself."

 

 

Buffy nods. "Guns, broadswords, even your double-edged trivet. Don't worry, I didn't donate 'em to the Salvation Army, though they do seem surprisingly short on weapons for an army."

 

 

"And what, exactly, do I need to do to convince you that I'm not suicidal?"

 

 

She sets her magazine aside and swings her feet to the floor. "You could not be suicidal. You want breakfast? I got eggs."

 

 

"I thought you didn't cook."

 

 

"I do a mean frittata. Kind of a baked omelet. I've got a fantastic recipe, even a moron could make a great frittata from it."

 

 

This girl is most assuredly not a moron, however much she likes to play the dizzy blonde. Wesley realizes he'd do well to remember that. He realizes he is, in fact, hungry. "Yes," he says. "A frittata would be good. Go easy on the mean."

 

 

***

 

 

Wesley's remaining act of defiance at this hijacking of his life and flat is to withhold any assistance as Buffy works in his newly-stocked kitchen. But the space is so small that she doesn't seem to notice, probably assuming he's staying out of her way. She tosses a packet of mixed vegetables into the microwave to steam, then begins cracking eggs, as he leans against the doorjamb watching.

 

 

He has a sudden memory of Angel cooking eggs, back in his old flat in the Angel Investigations office building. Cordelia was nibbling on a piece of toast at the table, her seer's eyes still safely in her head. What if Wesley had kept going, instead of accepting Angel's afterthought of an invitation to breakfast? Would his life be better? Would he have risen to the challenge and worked his way back into the good graces of the Council? Or would he even be alive now? Would Cordelia, or Angel?

 

 

"What?" Buffy says, glancing up to find his gaze fixed on her work. "You're noticing the lack of chives? I hope you're not a 'they're not eggs without chives' person, because I always forget them. They're just pointless green flecks to me."

 

 

"No," he responds. "I'm undecided on the chives issue."

 

 

The sadness in his voice surprises the both of them. Whisk dripping, she turns away from the bowl of eggs to regard him. "What?" she says again. This time her voice is soft, not sharp, an invitation.

 

 

"Angel sometimes cooked breakfast after an all-night case." He has no idea why he's sharing this with her. "If there wasn't too much demon ichor involved."

 

 

"Yeah." Her voice is husky as well. "Ichor is a big appetite-killer, especially for eggs. It's hard to believe he's gone."

 

 

"When did you see him last?"

 

 

"Not long before Sunnydale got sucked into the hellmouth. What was the story with him -- all of you, I guess -- going to that law firm that just caved in? Xander said they were pretty firmly on the side of evil, from everything he could tell."

 

 

"It's a long story. He thought -- we all did -- that we could do some good."

 

 

"From the outside, it looked like he lost his way."

 

 

"It felt that way sometimes from the inside," Wesley admits. "There were cards that Angel held close to the vest. About why we were there. I got a look at them, close to the end. I honestly -- I can't say if we did the right thing."

 

 

"He could, to quote Xander, be a high-handed sonofabitch."

 

 

It surprises him to hear her speak of Angel this way. "Sounds like you've gained some perspective on your relationship."

 

 

"Believe me, it was a long time coming." She turns back to her work, retrieving the vegetables from the microwave and dumping them, along with some fistfuls of shredded cheese from a bag, into the eggs she's poured into a pan. Slipping the pan into the oven, she checks her watch. "I guess we're both really different people than we were when we knew each other. I wouldn't have suspected you two would get close the way you did, and that Cordelia would wind up working with you."

 

 

He wonders if he'd have lost his own way so thoroughly if Cordelia had still been around. "Strange, isn't it, how life turns out?"

 

 

***

 

 

Buffy washes out the whisk and the bowl she'd used for the eggs. "Speaking of being a totally different person. I was always a let 'em sit in the sink' kind of girl. With maturity comes immediate dish-washing. Then again, if you wait and your sink gets sucked into the hellmouth, you _never_ have to deal with those dishes. That has its pluses."

 

 

Wesley smiles. "I suppose it does. May I ask you something?"

 

 

She sets the dishes in the drainer and runs the dish towel over the counter. "Ask away."

 

 

"Would you tell me about ... about your death?"

 

 

"Angel never told you about that?" She spreads the towel out to dry and turns to him.

 

 

"Well, you know Angel. Not a big confider." He thinks again about Angel walking in while he and Cordelia were acting out the operatic -- or soap operatic -- aspects of Buffy and Angel's relationship. This Wesley doesn't share. "I should have asked. The fact that I could call myself your watcher for months and not have taken pains to find out what I could --" He shakes his head. "You were a reminder of my most significant failure. It's no excuse, I know."

 

 

"You were set up to fail," she says simply. "I don't mean on purpose, though sometimes I wouldn't put it past them." Neither would Wesley. "But Giles and I were so bonded -- his response to the Cruciamentum was proof of that -- we were so close that no one would have been able to take his place or come between us. We were all shittier to you than we needed to be, but even if we'd been polite about it, you could never have been my watcher. Or Faith's, probably. Seeing her first watcher die, and then crazy Mrs. Post -- you didn't have a prayer with her, either. So when somebody hands you an impossible job and it turns out to be impossible and thankless besides, does that make you a failure?"

 

 

Raising a hand to his face so quickly that he leaves a fingernail scratch across his cheek, he turns away from her and stumbles into the living room. Blindly he fumbles his way to a chair and falls into it.

 

 

"Wes? Are you okay?"

 

 

He draws breath to tell her he's fine, but a hand seems to clamp around his throat. Instead he attempts to wave her away, but she takes his hand. Kneeling beside his chair, she takes his other hand as well, and there's nothing tender about the gesture. It feels as if she's about to brace her feet and begin pulling him from some depth of mire.

 

 

"Tell me, Wes. What is it?"

 

 

He doesn't answer for a moment, concentrating on breathing, on the strength of her hands holding his.

 

 

"I'm sorry," are the first words he can manage.

 

 

"No need to be. Just tell me."

 

 

"No one --" His throat clamps shut again, and he waits until he can breathe again. "No one has said anything like this to me," he finally says. "Not even my father." Especially not his father, who was his harshest critic in the aftermath.

 

 

She says nothing, just holds on to his hands for a few moments before gradually loosening her grip. "I'd better rescue the eggs," she says at last. With one last squeeze, she releases his hands and rises to head into the kitchen.

 

 

***

 

 

By the time Buffy brings plates to the table, Wesley has had a chance to gather himself -- and to feel a hot pinpoint of shame within that he would both fall apart before her and air family business. His father would be disgusted by the role reversal that Wesley had allowed to occur. That a slayer should need to offer counseling to a watcher is nothing less than a disgrace.

 

 

"Get it while it's hot," Buffy says, and Wesley rises to obey, though he has quite lost his interest in food.

 

 

"Hey," she says. "What happened there?" She touches a gentle finger to the scratch on his face.

 

 

"It's nothing. An accidental scratch." He's startled to feel a spark of attraction at her touch. Strange how one fleeting touch can do what hands tightly gripping his own did not. He feels her attention shift from the fresh scratch on his cheek to the old scar at his neck, just as he pulls away from the contact.

 

 

"I think maybe the lines of communication have been down in both directions," she says.

 

 

"It's nothing," he says again, a lie so ludicrous in its proportions that Buffy can offer no response. He steps around her, moving toward the table. "As you said, we should eat before it grows cold."

 

 

She cuts a large slice of the frittata and scoops some salad which appeared from nowhere and puts them on a plate, which she passes to him.

 

 

"When did you have time to do this?"

 

 

"The salad? What rock have you been living under, Wes? It comes in a bag. You should spend a little more time in the produce department."

 

 

"Yes. Perhaps consuming more greens would have prevented my early demise."

 

 

She smirks. "They're good for pissiness, I hear."

 

 

"Curing it, or promoting it?"

 

 

"Read that however you like." She serves herself, then says, "I guess we got a little sidetracked. You asked about my death."

 

 

"If that question was out of bounds --"

 

 

"Xander said something recently about how rarely we get to talk about this sort of thing at all. The only people we get to share our lives with are the people who live our lives."

 

 

Her innocent comment is a twist of the knife (and Wesley now knows intimately how that feels). Fred's fury at him was fueled by just this -- that he hadn't shared news of her death with her parents.

 

 

"So," Buffy says. "There was this hellgod, Glory."

 

 

Wesley asked for this. He forces himself to pay attention, thrusting Fred out of his mind.

 

 

"She'd been banished to earth, thanks a _lot_, whatever powers got that bright idea, and she was looking for a way to open the portal that would take her back to her hell dimension. Turns out my sister was the ruby slippers she needed, wrapped up in a mystical disguise."

 

 

"Your sister? Dawn?"

 

 

Buffy nods. "Who wasn't technically my sister when you knew me. Or even alive, in the human sense."

 

 

"I don't understand."

 

 

"It's a big thing to wrap your head around -- which as an expression never fails to make me think of Wile E. Coyote and a signpost or something. But I digress. My sister. All the memories you have of her are fake. When you knew me, she was a glowy green energy. It wasn't until a couple of years later that these monks wrapped it up in a teenage girl and sent her to me, with a whole lifetime of memories. Which creates a whole minefield of existential weirdness for her and for us, but we seem to handle it pretty well."

 

 

He recalls the few times he saw Dawn, and the many times he heard Buffy speak of her. With exasperation or amusement, and obvious love. How strange to think those memories are lies. He wonders how Connor is handling his own existential minefield.

 

 

"So. Glory eventually figured out Dawn was the key she was looking for, and she managed to kidnap her. She had her on this tower, and one of her worshippers cut Dawn. It was her blood that opened the portal. They were going to bleed her dry to keep it open. I figured out I could close it by jumping through."

 

 

"You willingly jumped into a hell dimension."

 

 

"I wasn't going to let them kill my sister," she says simply. "So you get why my friends dragged me back from heaven. They saw where I'd jumped, and made a perfectly natural assumption. We knew what Angel went through when he was in hell, and Lily -- They did what they did out of love."

 

 

"This is how you came by your compassion," Wesley says, struck by the realization. "You had to forgive your friends."

 

 

Buffy shrugs a dismissal. "I wouldn't be alive without my friends. And that was true long before they brought me back from the dead."

 

 

***

 

 

"What --" What a bizarre conversation, and what a harsh thing to ask, but Wesley finds he must. "What was the actual cause of death?"

 

 

"I jumped into a hell dimension, but I went splat in this one." She makes a face in response to his wince. "Sorry. That was a little unvarnished, wasn't it? I didn't feel it. What about you?"

 

 

"A knife to the gut. I confess I did feel that. My killer twisted the blade a good bit to make sure of that."

 

 

She offers a noise that's halfway between disgust and sympathy. "And that's the last person you saw?"

 

 

"No, it wasn't. Illyria came. It took on Fred's form and held me until I died. The most curious thing, really."

 

 

"Wow. That's so not the experience I had with my ancient god."

 

 

He sets down his fork and looks away, his gaze landing on the formulas scrawled on his walls. "It was brutal, watching Illyria hijack Fred's form, seeing how it distorted her. I loathed it beyond description, which I made quite clear to it, yet somehow we could not break from one another."

 

 

"Grief will do that," she says softly.

 

 

"To have it come and comfort me as I died --" Abruptly he rises and stands at the window, gazing out on the street.

 

 

Buffy does not follow. "It's remarkable," she says from her place at the table. "Gods aren't so big on connection with the puny mortals."

 

 

"Ironic, though. While the god would have me, when Fred was restored, she turned away from me completely."

 

 

"Do you know why?"

 

 

"She was furious that I had not told her parents of her death. I allowed Illyria to impersonate her, for whatever reasons it had. Our relationship might have survived her anger -- we were lovers when she died -- but there's a gap in her memories lasting several months, and our relationship was swallowed in it."

 

 

"That's hard. I'm sorry."

 

 

"I can't decide whether to blame Angel's high handedness for the way things ended with Fred, or be grateful that it gave me the gift of our relationship in the first place."

 

 

"Angel?"

 

 

***

 

 

Wesley turns from the window toward her. "Angel was the one who was responsible for the spell that altered our memories."

 

 

"Angel? Why?"

 

 

Wesley smiles. "Why did Angel do most of what he did? To save someone. Or else to save everyone."

 

 

"Which was it?"

 

 

"Both. There was a young man -- human, but he'd spent most of his life in one of the worst of the hell dimensions. He took hostages, wired them to bombs."

 

 

"And Angel's answer was to revise the memories of dozens of people -- or hundreds, or I guess if the old Action News Team made the scene, let's call it thousands. Isn't that, I dunno, massive overkill? I mean, isn't this one for the LAPD?"

 

 

"Not in this case, no." Wesley returns to the table, pulls his chair out and turns it round, straddling the chair back as he catches Buffy's gaze. "The boy was Angel's son."

 

 

Buffy blinks. "Did anyone ever tell you, Wes, that you have one helluva poker face? Very funny."

 

 

"I know what you're thinking. It's impossible. But it's quite true."

 

 

"Then how? Everything I know about vampires I learned from the two best sources available, Giles and Angel himself. Vampires are the Shakers of the supernatural world. They don't breed, they convert -- and wait, you said he was human?"

 

 

"We don't know how. Although as it turned out, he was a child of prophecy."

 

 

"So 'Shut up and file him under signs and wonders,' huh? Well, he had a mother, didn't he? Who was she?"

 

 

"Darla."

 

 

"_Two_ vampires had a human child? Did he know? All the time I knew him, he never said anything. And I thought he hadn't even seen her for--"

 

 

Wesley lifts a hand to halt her. "No. Connor was born after Angel came to Los Angeles."

 

 

"Which would make him -- well, a pretty advanced tot if he's working with explosives. Maybe Xander's boss should have a talk with this kid."

 

 

The thought almost raises a smile from him. "Actually, Connor is college aged now. You see--"

 

 

Buffy waves a hand. "Oh, I know. Hell dimensions, time moves differently. When Angel came back --" She cuts herself off. "So what this boils down to, he went back with that skanky ho."

 

 

***

 

 

"You notice I didn't even protest that she's dead," Buffy continues. "I mean, so many people are coming back from the dead that it's not even cool anymore."

 

 

"Story of my life," Wesley says. "By the time I jump on the bandwagon, the parade is over. Wolfram &amp; Hart brought her back. As a human."

 

 

"How is that even possible?"

 

 

"It takes the kind of magic that makes altering the memories of a few hundred people look like a cheap card trick."

 

 

"So that's how they made a child? That she was human again?"

 

 

Wesley rubs his brow. "It's quite a bit more complicated than that."

 

 

"Flighty me, thinking it wasn't. Do tell."

 

 

"She was a vampire again when she conceived. Angel tried very hard to save her, but Drusilla found her and turned her. Angel went through a bit of a dark period."

 

 

"He wasn't -- No, that wouldn't make him lose his soul."

 

 

"There are forms of darkness that are common enough to those with souls. We forget that sometimes, those of us who spend so much time fighting creatures without souls. Angel lost his way for a while. He broke off from Cordelia and Charles and me for nearly three months before we reconciled."

 

 

"I don't know if I want to ask. What does dark-but-souled Angel do?"

 

 

Wesley wonders if he should tell her. Angel would hate her learning of this, but it's her choice to know. "Darla and Drusilla crashed a party at the home of a Wolfram &amp; Hart executive. Over a dozen people were there -- humans, even if they were doing the work of darkness. Angel locked them in."

 

 

"Dru and Darla?"

 

 

"All of them. Together. There were only two survivors."

 

 

"That doesn't even sound like him."

 

 

"No. It shook us. Even more so that he was unrepentant. This is what caused the rift between us."

 

 

Buffy looks down at her hands. "Well. When Angel wants to drive a wedge between himself and someone else, it gets driven good."

 

 

***

 

 

"I need more coffee for this," Buffy says. She rises and disappears into the kitchen, returning in a moment with the coffee pot. She refills both cups before seating herself again. "So sometime around this time, Angel -- was he running around with Darla again?"

 

 

"No. In fact, he tried to kill her and Drusilla."

 

 

"But he did -- At least once --"

 

 

"Yes."

 

 

She releases a breath, staring at her hands cradled around her cup. "There is no reason it should bug me this much now."

 

 

Wesley sips his coffee. "Just as there was no reason it should bother him that you and Spike had a relationship."

 

 

Brightening slightly, Buffy looks up. "Really? It bothered him?"

 

 

Wesley can't suppress a smile.

 

 

"God, were we the most fucked-up pair of all time?"

 

 

"Not even close," Wesley counters.

 

 

Buffy raises her eyebrows, but Wesley does not elaborate. "Then what? Darla finds herself knocked up and takes off to a hell dimension to enroll her kid in the demonic finishing school?"

 

 

"No," he says flatly. "What is the point of all this? Angel's gone, his child has his own life now."

 

 

Buffy's gaze sharpens. "What is it?"

 

 

"Nothing."

 

 

Bristling, she says, "Of all the counterproductive crap they teach watchers, this whole 'Nothing's wrong, now leave me alone while I get snockered and play Russian roulette' thing is the stupidest."

 

 

"While the pointless indulging of every emotion and blurting of every sordid secret is one of the American people's most useful inventions. You've come charging in here to rescue me from myself with all the skills and techniques you've gleaned from a lifetime of watching Oprah and Montel."

 

 

"Montel?" she scoffs. "Montel's still on your radar?" Sobering, she holds his gaze, her voice suddenly gentle. "Tell me honestly that you didn't need to be rescued from yourself."

 

 

He can't. "And when, exactly, will I be deemed to be properly rescued? What was your objective when you set out on this mission?"

 

 

***

 

 

Buffy pauses a moment, twisting a ring on her right pointer finger. "I was hoping I could get you to go see some friends of Giles's. Back in England."

 

 

"The Council? They're hardly going to welcome me with open arms."

 

 

Buffy shakes her head emphatically. "Not them. Are you kidding? There's a coven."

 

 

"Witches? Really, Buffy."

 

 

"They helped Willow. She got sorta suicidal once. The big difference is, she decided to take the entire world with her. They brought her back."

 

 

"She told me about that. She certainly changed."

 

 

"Yeah, well. So have you. Will said they have a wonderful place. Peaceful and healing."

 

 

"You can forget it," Wesley tells her.

 

 

"Don't you miss home?"

 

 

He laughs sharply. "Home? You have no idea what home is to me."

 

 

"My mistake. Call it a retreat, then. I wish I'd had someplace like that after I came back from the dead," she says, and the retort Wesley had half formed sticks in his throat. "Hell, I wish I had someplace like that now."

 

 

"From what Xander said, you've traded one hellmouth for another."

 

 

"It's a living. Except, of course, for the parts where I'm dead."

 

 

"You could give it up now. You're no longer the sole slayer." Her expression tells him otherwise. "It's difficult letting go of one's destiny, isn't it? Almost impossible to imagine any other kind of life. Even when one's destiny does the letting go."

 

 

Buffy rests her hand on his arm. "The Council doesn't get to decide whether or when your destiny is through with you. Giles is proof of that."

 

 

"Have you ever thought of walking away? Let yourself plan another life, or even fantasize about one? After all, Xander's done it. Not that he was raised to a destiny, but he --"

 

 

Her boisterous laughter startles him.

 

 

"Sorry. I guess you don't know. Xander just handed in his notice. He's getting ready to move to Cleveland."

 

 

***

 

 

Wesley removes his arm from beneath Buffy's touch, refilling his coffee cup so the retreat won't seem so obvious. "But I saw him with his colleagues. Xander seemed quite successful and content, and certainly well respected. He managed to warn them of the sort of things they might encounter in the Wolfram &amp; Hart building without being considered some sort of lunatic."

 

 

"Well, they respect him even more now. He killed some demon with a samurai sword when they were about to bring the building down. It had some big horn." She gestures at her forehead, fingers extended in a cone shape.

 

 

"A kungai demon?"

 

 

"You're asking me? You want the research department. I'm in killing. Wait, there was some name -- I know. Giles said the horn was called a Tak, and Xander joked, '_Michael Jackson's nose_ is a tack, this was a railroad spike.'"

 

 

"Xander's quite fortunate. Even the slightest scratch from a Tak horn can kill."

 

 

"Well, that's where we part company," Buffy says. "Or one of numerous places where we part company. I don't think it was luck. He's been fighting demons for a long time now. And just because he wasn't born or called to a destiny the way we were, it doesn't mean he doesn't have one. It's been weird without him fighting beside us."

 

 

Wesley thinks of Cordelia's absence this past year. "As if you've lost an arm."

 

 

"Not really. He's like a thumb. Easy to underestimate, but really hard to get along without."

 

 

"I'm guessing no one underestimates him quite as completely as he does."

 

 

Buffy nods. "Nobody should know like you."

 

 

"I?"

 

 

"I get the feeling you're a champion at underestimating yourself. I didn't see that back when I first knew you. I was a little too young to realize that puffing yourself up usually means you feel pretty vulnerable beneath it all."

 

 

"Ouch. I must say you've developed a very effective skewering technique in the meantime."

 

 

Buffy grins. "I've been told."

 

 

"You remind me of Cordelia in that regard." He's struck with the sudden realization that Cordy would never have let him come to this pass. He hears her voice as clearly as if she were in the room: _If I ever find you pointing a gun at your head again, I'll shoot you myself._

 

 

Wesley squeezes his eyes shut, but it's too late. Tears come unbidden, escaping from beneath his lashes.

 

 

***

 

 

Wesley lays an arm the back of the chair he straddles and rests his head there, grateful for the barrier between him and Buffy. The prospect of a hug appalls him. Gradually he drops his guard as she makes no move to offer him one, and he relaxes into his grief.

 

 

His tears make no sound, nor do his shoulders shake. This much he's learned from growing up with his father.

 

 

Though she does not touch him or murmur meaningless comfort, Buffy does not leave him to his privacy. The hard kernel of anger this produces in him doesn't seem to dampen his grieving. It seems, in fact, to encourage its release. Despite Buffy's silent presence beside him, he weeps for what seems like a very long time, his face hidden from her gaze.

 

 

Through long habit he waits for his eyes to dry and his face to compose itself before he raises it. To his surprise he sees tears shimmering in Buffy's eyes.

 

 

"I wish I'd known her the way you did," she says. "I should have come to see her when she was sick."

 

 

"She wouldn't have known. She was in the deepest type of coma for nearly a year before she died."

 

 

"It doesn't matter. She was one of our own. Xander managed it."

 

 

"Did he?"

 

 

Buffy nods. "He had another job in L.A., last fall, I think. Tell me about her."

 

 

Of all the things he might have expected from Buffy after his display of emotion _(unseemly emotion, his father would call it)_, this is the last. And possibly the only one that would move him. "In many ways, she was the Cordelia you knew. Fond of shoes and frocks and spectacularly lacking in tact at times. Sometimes that's the thing I miss most. But she grew a great deal since you knew her. She became a visionary. I mean that literally -- a seer."

 

 

"How did that happen, anyway?"

 

 

"There was a man Angel worked with when he first came to L.A. Doyle. His visions led Angel to people in need of help. He passed those visions on to Cordy at his death." The reminder of this first in a series of losses -- even before he joined forces with Angel -- causes him to close his eyes for a moment before he goes on. "The more aware she became of the suffering of others, the more compassion she developed. She was a far cry from the spoiled rich girl she seemed to be in high school."

 

 

"Would you take me to her? Where she's buried, I mean?"

 

 

The request startles him.

 

 

"We Sunnydale survivors have a notable lack of places we can visit our dead, you know. No headstone on a crater."

 

 

Wesley regards her for a moment. "Yes. I'll take you there."

 

 

***

 

 

It's almost strange to be out in the daylight after so long in the darkened cave of his home. The mild air and sunshine feel good against his skin as they walk toward her rental car; Wesley suspects this is part of the reason he's been avoiding going out.

 

 

"So her parents didn't take her body somewhere to be buried near them?" Buffy asks. "Where do they live now, anyway?"

 

 

"They're somewhere in Europe, I believe. And no, they didn't even come to the service."

 

 

"Wow."

 

 

"Well, her father is wanted. He was due to appear at a minimum security facility to begin his sentence, and instead they fled. He can't come back."

 

 

"Again I say 'wow.' I mean, his daughter's funeral." Buffy plucks a sheaf of parking tickets off her windshield and tosses them into the back seat, and they get into the rental.

 

 

"It was a wise move, if not the most loving. There were federal agents at the service."

 

 

"God, Wes. That must have been so -- I can't imagine."

 

 

"They weren't disruptive. They were just _there_."

 

 

"But you couldn't even mourn in private."

 

 

"And we couldn't speak openly about who she had been. Every eulogy given had the heart snipped out of it first, hastily, of course, since we hadn't realized they would be there. The entire service had a strange choppiness. It was devoid of any comfort. And Angel couldn't attend the graveside service at all."

 

 

"That sounds so painful and hard."

 

 

"Lorne tried to sing. Music is like air to him. It's how he makes sense of the world, how he reads people. I know he believes it saved his life. He made an attempt to sing, and he couldn't get beyond the first few bars."

 

 

"Present tense -- he's not one of the friends you lost?"

 

 

"He is, just in a different way. Angel asked too much of him, and he walked away."

 

 

Buffy casts him a quick glance. "He betrayed you?"

 

 

"No. He betrayed himself. Angel asked that of him, to do something completely contrary to his nature. Lorne agreed, but he said he'd disappear afterward, and that he didn't want to be found."

 

 

"Do you plan to try?"

 

 

Wesley bristles. "Not everyone can be fixed by kicking down their door and demanding to fix them. He said he wanted to be left alone, and I intend to respect his wishes."

 

 

"It's a good thing I'm not overly sensitive," Buffy says mildly, "or I might be hurt by that."

 

 

Wesley makes no response, and they pass the rest of the drive to the cemetery in silence.

 

 

***

 

 

As they approach the main gate of the cemetery, Wesley gestures to indicate the left-hand turn, but Buffy makes a right, pulling into the parking lot of a florist's shop whose location ensures that it thrives from just such impulses.

 

 

"I'd better warn you," Wesley says. "This shop is the equivalent of a Rodeo Drive boutique in extravagance."

 

 

"Good," Buffy says. "That's means it's just the place for a tribute to Cordy. Be right back."

 

 

Wesley takes advantage of her lack of invitation and waits in the car for her to return with an overpriced gerbera and a case of sticker shock, but after some moments a vast arrangement creeps up to the passenger door like Birnam Wood.

 

 

"Wes! Open up."

 

 

He obeys and receives the armload of flowers, exquisite even to his eye. He can imagine the gasp of delight Cordelia might have uttered had these been delivered to the Hyperion for her.

 

 

As Buffy settles in behind the wheel, Wesley says, "These must have been quite extravagant."

 

 

"These aren't a token from a high school friend, Wes. This is tribute from the Council, and it's the least we can do." She noses the rental back onto the roadway and makes the turn into the cemetery.

 

 

"They're extraordinary. And well-suited to her."

 

 

"Well, trust Xander to remember what she liked, even though he never could afford it when they were together."

 

 

The reminder of Xander and his apparent all-around superiority as a thoughtful specimen of manhood prompts a scowl. Wesley directs Buffy to the section that contains Cordy's grave, and she pulls up to the curb and shuts off the engine.

 

 

As they walk across the manicured lawn with its metal and stone plaques set flush into the ground, Buffy comments, "I get why the cemetery people prefer these markers, and I guess they're even safer in a fight, but they really don't have the same character as the stone markers. Give me big headstones and a looming, brooding angel anyday and do not, I repeat, _do not_ say a single word."

 

 

Wesley can't suppress a smile. "Even if I agree 100%?"

 

 

After a moment, she says, "You spent the last five years with him. Was he --" Buffy winces. "Get this, I was about to ask if he was happy. Guess we know the answer there."

 

 

"At times there was more of a lightness about him. Connor brought that out, when he was a baby." The memory of that shattered pleasure in the child creates such a weight in Wesley's chest that he can scarcely breathe. He stops walking for a moment, pushing back at the desolation that threatens him. He points ahead of them. "I believe it's two rows ahead of this."

 

 

They pick their way over the last few yards, gazing downward as if they fear stumbling over some nonexistent obstacle. "Here it is," Buffy calls out.

 

 

Wesley hands her the flowers, which she cradles in her arms.

 

 

"Tell me what happened to her," Buffy says. "I know about the coma, but not what caused it."

 

 

"An ancient god used her as its vessel to give birth to itself. The birth was too much for Cordy. It was much less violent than what happened to Fred when Illyria took her, but for all intents and purposes, they died of the same thing."

 

 

"And the god?"

 

 

"We took care of it," he says grimly. After a moment's silence, he says, "Even before her coma, Cordelia wasn't herself. Something evil held sway over her."

 

 

"I bet it had to fight like hell."

 

 

"I suspect you're right. She did appear to us just before she died -- or just after, I'm still unclear on that. But we had a chance to see her again briefly, have the real Cordelia among us again."

 

 

"I'm glad you had that." Buffy kneels by the marker and lays the flowers on the grass. "You fought the good fight, Cordy. I'm sorry we didn't get to sit down and swap war stories before you died. Or at least go shoe shopping."

 

 

***

 

 

In lieu of swapping war stories with Cordelia, Buffy offers a couple of Cordelia stories from the days when she was a full-fledged member of Buffy's little band, and gradually Wesley feels impelled to contribute his own.

 

 

They stroll the impeccably manicured grounds, Buffy scanning the graves for signs of disturbance as they walk. "They must have pretty strict entrance requirements here," she says after a while. "'Vampires need not apply.'"

 

 

"You see no signs of risings?"

 

 

"Either it's completely supernaturally quiet here, or the groundskeepers are really, _really_ good." She glances at him. "I can't decide if Cordy will appreciate the rest or find herself completely bored with how dead the neighborhood is."

 

 

For his own part, Wesley can't decide whether her musings are in poor taste or an inevitable view of mortality from someone with Buffy's sensibilities and experiences.

 

 

"We got a new slayer three or four months ago," Buffy says. "She's from Mexico. Marta was telling us about the Day of the Dead, and how there are huge traffic jams from the people going to the cemeteries to visit their dead with flowers and picnics and drinks, and how there are little shrines in people's houses, and big ones in public places, and marigolds everywhere to attract their spirits to the food and drink. We all decided we're going to do that this November. If we don't have a place to visit our friends and family, we can create a place for them to come to us."

 

 

"That seems like a lovely notion."

 

 

Buffy nods. "It's been hard on Dawn, not having a place to visit Mom. And I might as well admit it, me too."

 

 

"Your mother? I didn't know. What happened?"

 

 

"It wasn't some supernatural beastie. She had a brain tumor, and we thought we'd got her past that, but there was an aneurism. Just random badness, not supernatural badness."

 

 

"I'm so very sorry."

 

 

"It's been three years now. Seems like an eternity, seems like yesterday." She turns to him. "Know what I could use right now? A terrace and a margarita and some dinner."

 

 

It's been a long time since he's felt steady enough for that kind of public space, but Wesley nods. "I know a place. It was a favorite of Cordelia's."

 

 

***

 

 

Almost as soon as he says it, Wesley feels a stab of regret at suggesting one of Cordelia's favorite places. He's not certain he's ready for this.

 

 

Buffy cocks her head, regarding him. "Are you sure?"

 

 

"Of course," he lies. "It's nearby, and both the food and margaritas are exceptional. What better place to swap Cordy stories than a place she enjoyed?"

 

 

The co-owner of the place, woman in her sixties who's generally warm and welcoming, forgoes the chat -- or much of a greeting at all -- as she leads them to their table. She drops the menus on the table and walks away without asking what they'd like to drink.

 

 

"Little snippy, aren't they?"

 

 

"Elena's usually quite friendly. We had an almost personal relationship with the staff here. And they loved Cordelia."

 

 

"Have you been here since her funeral?"

 

 

"God, no. It's too bright and happy, and too Cordelia. And Fred was dead not a month later, and after that--" After that he sank into the darkest pit, and margaritas were not what he wanted.

 

 

"That's it, then. She thinks you've dumped Cordelia for some blonde chippie, and then brought her to Cordy's favorite place. That's why she's giving you the stink-eye."

 

 

"You can't be serious."

 

 

"Trust me. You've run afoul of the great sisterhood."

 

 

"We should go, then."

 

 

"No, not at all. I can fix this. Just tell me whether you want to give them the truth or not."

 

 

"God, no. I mean --"

 

 

"The sympathy thing. It's takes _way_ more energy than you have right now."

 

 

"Yes."

 

 

"So this is on a 'Need to Know' basis for now. I'll handle it."

 

 

The young waitress is upon them before he can make an answer, and she's clearly taking her cue from Elena.

 

 

Buffy greets her with a dazzling smile. "Oh, are you Elena? Cordy said I should say hi."

 

 

The girl blinks and stammers, saying no, she's Elena's daughter Maria.

 

 

"She's told me how much she loves this place," Buffy babbles on. "Just my luck that when I come into town for my job, she's out of the country. But she told me I had to have Wes bring me here."

 

 

Elena has now caught some of Buffy's chatter, and drifts back to their table. "You know Cordelia?" she asks.

 

 

"Know her? She's my sister. I live in Cleveland now, and I don't get to L.A. very much."

 

 

"Elena, I'd like you to meet Buffy."

 

 

"_Mucho gusto_. She's traveling now?"

 

 

"She's in Rome, and loving it. From the sound of things, she's going to need a container ship to bring back all the shoes she's bought."

 

 

"She'll have to come to show off a pair when she returns. It's been too long since we've seen her. Now -- what can I bring you to drink?"

 

 

Elena bustles off with their orders, and Buffy turns to him. "There. You can tell them in your own good time, or never."

 

 

"Well done. I can almost picture her there." Wesley falls silent, toying with the napkin-wrapped bundle of silverware at his place. This is what he faces when he emerges from his cave -- having to choose this lie or the truth whenever he goes somewhere he went with Cordy. The knowledge that Cordelia's fake life in Italy is so much more vivid than the one he's allowed himself to have. "I'm not ready for this."

 

 

"You're never ready the first time. The trick is finding the moment when you're close to ready and taking the plunge."

 

 

"I'm not that strong."

 

 

"Believe the worst of yourself. That's always sound policy."

 

 

It was always his father's policy.

 

 

"Do me a favor, and give me that with a minor edit. 'I'm not that strong yet.'"

 

 

Maria brings their margaritas, and he touches his tongue to the salted rim. It tastes like concentrated tears. "Tell me again about this retreat, about the coven."

 

 

***

 

 

After she tells him more about the coven and Salisbury Plain, the conversation circles back around to Cordy. Buffy tells him more early-Cordelia stories, and he supplies more recent ones, and though they both limit themselves to one large margarita, the conversation grows more giddy as the stories pile up. Cordelia's immunity to Xander's love spell gone awry. Cordelia's reunion with Harmony. The epic battle between Buffy and Cordelia for the title of homecoming queen. Her brief reign as actual queen of Pylea.

 

 

"Who knew she'd actually take up the good fight? Wasn't she planning to be --"

 

 

"--An actress." He winces. "Believe me, demon fighting is a little less painful." He describes one of the plays she appeared in, and they both dissolve into laughter.

 

 

"You had to sit through that?"

 

 

"She made us come to the entire run. Four nights, two matinees. Angel, of course, managed to miss the matinees. The theater just happened to be in the one spot in LA that had no sewer tunnels nearby."

 

 

"I hope you made him pay for escaping."

 

 

"We did. Especially Cordelia." He finishes the last of his _tres leches_ cake. "I hadn't thought I'd laugh again. Thank you for letting me talk about her."

 

 

They settle into making plans for his retreat.

 

 

"I'd like to go for a while too," Buffy says. "I've hardly slowed down since Sunnydale fell. The place sounds big enough that we won't cross paths much if you're sick of the sight of me."

 

 

He smiles. "That won't be an issue."

 

 

"I think I can get away for a couple of weeks. I'll have to get back after that. I have a -- a thing."

 

 

"A wedding?"

 

 

She nods.

 

 

"Fred deserves to be happy. She had a hellish life for five years."

 

 

"If Xander's half as loyal and open-hearted as a husband as he is a friend, she's going to have a good life."

 

 

Wesley has had his own massive failures of loyalty and open-heartedness. Perhaps she's in better hands now. "I'd like to call it a night," he says.

 

 

They pass the ride home mostly in silence, except for Buffy's statement that she'll be staying in a hotel tonight. She walks him to his apartment so she can retrieve some things she left behind. As he opens the door, she says, "We should paint this before we go, I think. You don't want to come back to this after you've been away."

 

 

He gazes at the scrawls of complex equations on the walls. "Yes," he says. "I think you're right."

 

 

***

 

 

Wesley sets down his case and gazes around the room. It has been transformed from what it was after Illyria -- or Fred -- had covered its walls with mathematical symbols. Transformed even from what it had been before.

 

 

No longer an unremarkable, unmemorable shade meant not to clash with anything in the room, the walls are now vibrant colors of sun gold and rust, inspired by Buffy's visit to Mexico to find the slayer Marta. He'd agreed to Buffy's suggestions, though he'd been dubious, not entirely convinced that someone of his nature could feel at home in such surroundings.

 

 

They'd made a foray into Pier 1 as well, complementing the new walls with a pair of bright, abstract prints, some rather ethnic (as his father would be sure to note) textiles and some small pieces of Mexican pottery.

 

 

He hadn't been sure that he'd like the effect, but he does.

 

 

Wesley hears a substantial thump just outside his door, then a knock. It's a few minutes before their appointed time to leave for the airport. "You're early," he says in greeting.

 

 

"I know. Brave new world, isn't it?" She picks up her brown paper-wrapped burden and bustles inside. "So I brought this thing. And yeah, I know, it's a little overbearing to just _buy_ you something like this, but I saw it and couldn't get it out of my mind. I thought it would look great over the mantle." She helps him tear away the paper over her gift.

 

 

It's a small wooden door, perhaps for a dumbwaiter or crawlspace. Hand made, he's certain, and beautifully carved, though aged and worn. "Xander's taught me to appreciate architectural salvage," Buffy says. "If you have an eye for it, you can see all kinds of beauty that goes unappreciated by the world. Sometimes you can save something extraordinary from the trash heap."

 

 

"Yes," is all he says, because there's a tightness in his throat.

 

 

"And a door's a little weird as wall decor, I realize, but Marta's town had all these homes with the most gorgeous doors, and with the colors I just thought it seemed ..."

 

 

"You were right. It's perfect." And symbolic. Departures and entrances, untold potential. Already he looks forward to returning from Westbury and finding this waiting for him.

 

 

"I'll get my hammer," Wesley says. "We can put it up now."


End file.
